


Silvanus

by Wexchester (Charmsilver)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gentle Castiel, Grief, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Mentions of Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-08
Updated: 2013-09-08
Packaged: 2017-12-25 23:21:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/958818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Charmsilver/pseuds/Wexchester
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a forest clearing Castiel, a solemn woodland deity, stumbles upon Dean Winchester, a man plagued by a mysterious sorrow. They strike up an unusual friendship, and together learn that not all hurts need be suffered alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Silvanus

**Author's Note:**

> This story has been a work in progress for a while now, and I am glad to finally be publishing it! It's not as polished as I had hoped, but I have no wish to continue working on it at the moment. Anyway, I hope you enjoy it, even if it is a little rough around the edges.
> 
> Many thanks to Lisa for encouraging me to finish the whole thing, and for assuring me it's not as terrible as I first thought (though perhaps she was just being nice). Te ago gratias, amice!
> 
> If you want to follow me on tumblr (for lots of schmoopy ficlets and spn related meltdowns) then my url is 'wexchester.tumblr.com'
> 
> Quick note on mythology: Silvanus was a singlular Roman god who presided over the forests and fields. There were not several of these gods running around as my fic would seem to suggest. Please forgive me for tampering a little bit with Roman mythology!

“I dwell with a strangely aching heart.” -- Robert Frost, _Ghost House_

All things begin with a silence.

Castiel perches on a partially submerged rock, one knee bent and bumping against his chin, the other stretching down over the curve of the stone. The silence is bone-deep; almost cathartic in its density, and Castiel breathes it into his lungs like a man starved of water. It has been so long since the world changed.

He wonders what it will be – perhaps a great storm will pass over the woods and douse the land in a blast of cleansing rainwater – but when Castiel sniffs the air it is not at all electric – more soft and earthy – and he supposes it must be something else. A fish glides past his foot, brushing its tail fronds over the point of his toe. It darts away when Castiel twitches but returns soon after to place little fishy kisses on the skin beneath his toenail. Castiel smiles and tips his head to look through the canopy above; pinpricks of marvellous blue stare back, but they are mere glimpses of a huger sky and Castiel finds no answers in their periwinkle depths.

He sighs but he is not perturbed; Castiel has lived for thousands of years and if nothing else he has learned to be patient.

He makes ripples in the river, sending the little gold fish flitting away for good. Something catches his eye – a shimmering light by the far bank – and he snaps his head up so he can squint at the tiny gleam. Whatever it is seems to be caught on a reed, prevented from traveling further down the stream. Excitement fills Castiel’s belly like the fluttering of tiny dragonfly wings and he slips off the rock and into the water in order to wade towards the bank. As he approaches his shadow falls across the little item and the light flickers out, no longer touched by the sun. He crouches, submerging himself as far as his chin so he can inspect the thing at eye level.

At first glance it appears to be a very small, horned face. Castiel brings his palm up underneath it and scoops it out of the water; it is warm to the touch, and when Castiel lifts it, a long leather cord follows, looped through one end of the face. He stares at it in wonder and traces the tiny details with his forefinger. This little shape, whatever it is, is clearly not alive, nor has it ever been. Castiel brings it up to his nose, sniffs it. It smells of metal and skin; he flinches away, frowning. Where it came from, Castiel hasn’t any idea, but it didn’t come from the forest; he knows that much.

He glances around, curious, but sees nothing else out of the ordinary. Castiel hums and begins to wade upriver, the coursing water kissing his bare thighs. In his hand the amulet pulses with heat, warming his palm, as if it really might be a living creature.

When Castiel rounds the bend in the river he stops short, surprised. Not far off is a small clearing where the river becomes stonier and the trees seem to lean away, as if avoiding something. At the river’s edge kneels a man upon whom the sun is shining, lighting up his browned, freckled face. He is gazing off into the distance, as if inspecting the trees on the far bank, but there is a haze in his eyes that suggests he is deep in thought.

Nervousness fills Castiel’s stomach; it has been a long time since he saw a human in these woods. He wonders if he should leave the man in peace – back away into the shadowy cover of the trees and let his presence go ignored. But then he feels the little object in his hand give a great pulse and he knows he must approach.

The silence in this part of the forest is so heavy that Castiel fears he will suffocate. He takes a slow step forward, waits to see whether the man has noticed before he takes another. All around the world has come to a standstill, as if every creature has paused in its constant scampering to witness this moment.

Castiel climbs onto the bank and lets the sunlight wash over him and dry his skin. He continues his way along – towards the dark-haired stranger. At a distance of just a few feet he halts, unsure if he should make a sound to announce himself.

Before he can do any such thing, the man turns his head and blinks in shock. He springs off the ground, assuming a defensive position, his eyes flashing a deep shade of green that seems to be a reflection of the forest itself. “What the hell?” he says loudly, and the sound lacerates the silence like a sharp-eyed eagle in flight.

Castiel stands tall and regards the man with a steady gaze. “Hello,” he says. The man stares with a mixture of horror and revulsion. When he says nothing, Castiel takes another small step towards him. “What are you doing?”

The man doesn’t seem to like this question very much and he steps back, away from Castiel. “None of your damn business,” he says. “What nut house did you crawl out of?”

Castiel frowns; he doesn’t know what a ‘nut house’ is. “I didn’t crawl out of anywhere,” he replies. “My name is Castiel and I am the warden of this forest.”

The man’s face is hard, lined with worry and grief, and Castiel longs to reach out his fingers and brush all that anxiety away.

His body soon relaxes however, all the fight leaving him, and he quirks his lips up in a very small, unamused smile. “You’re naked,” he says.

Castiel looks down at himself, though he does not understand why this is noteworthy, or related for that matter. “And you are not.”

“Look, man – uh, Cas – Castiel – I dunno if you’ve got a screw loose or what, but right now I would prefer to be alone.” There’s a small tremor in his voice and Castiel’s frown deepens.

He holds up the small face between his forefinger and thumb. “I merely wished to return this to you.”

At first, Castiel thinks the man is going to lunge for him, but then he stumbles back, eyes flashing with hurt and sadness. “That’s not mine,” he states and his voice is quiet – simmering.

It’s a lie, of course – Castiel can tell. He steps closer, holding out the object in front of him. “Don’t be afraid.”

“ _It’s not mine_.”

Castiel continues forward until he’s barely an arm’s length away. He can see the man’s face clearly now – it is glorious in the sunlight, and his hair is soft and golden, not dark as Castiel had first thought. Despite his beauty, however, Castiel can sense a great sadness dwelling within him. “What troubles you?” he asks, and the man laughs, bitter.

“I’m being accosted by some lunatic, that’s what’s troublin’ me.”

“I am not a lunatic.”

“You sure look like one to me.”

The smallest bubble of frustration bumps around inside Castiel’s belly. He holds the tiny face up to the man’s cheek, grazing his knuckles across his buttercup-worthy skin. “The likeness is astounding,” he murmurs.

As Castiel had hoped, the man laughs; he lets out a startled huff and then he begins to tremble and hoot with loud amusement. Pleased with his efforts, Castiel smiles. He has never been particularly adept at sarcasm, but this strange, sad man seems to be appreciative.

At length his laughter subsides and he wipes away a tear of mirth. “You’re something else, you know that?”

Castiel nods. “I certainly am.”

The man holds out his hand between them. “Dean,” he says. “My name’s Dean Winchester.”

Castiel takes the opportunity to return the lost object, but Dean has other ideas and he clasps Castiel’s hand within his own, shakes it around in a most mysterious manner.

When he lets go Castiel cocks his head in confusion, the ribbon of leather still dangling from his fingers. “You are strange, Dean Winchester,” he says, which also seems to amuse Dean greatly.

“Cas – Castiel – whatever,” he stumbles over the name, “when was the last time you left the forest, huh?”

It’s an odd question, but easy enough to answer. “Never.”

Dean ogles him, strangely shocked. “Not even once?”

Castiel fiddles with the pendant in his hand, not understanding why it comes as such a surprise to this man. “I have never had occasion. My kind were charged with the protection of the forests, and it is in the forests we remain.”

“Your _kind_?”

“Woodland spirits; guardians of the forests; _Silvani_. We are not short of names.”

“Oh geez,” Dean says, sighing, “you really are a nutcase.”

Amused, Castiel steps back. He regards Dean’s curious expression – the way the sadness seems to have been swept underneath the surface of his skin. “Stay here,” he orders, “and watch me.” With that he begins to walk away, summoning the gentle forces of nature to his side. A smile spreads across his face when he feels the first bud tickle the underside of his foot; each step he takes creates a new formation of flowers, which spring open as he lifts his foot off the ground. He hears a gasp from Dean’s direction and, satisfied that he has proved his point, he subdues the growth and turns back, smug.

A perfect trail of flowers leads from him to Dean’s side and Castiel follows them back, eyes sparkling triumphantly. Dean watches, mouth agape, as Castiel returns.

“Holy shit,” he says when Castiel is close enough to hear him. “You weren’t joking.”

“No.”

Dean stares, then he shakes his head as if clearing his mind. “Maybe I’m the nutcase here.”

“I don’t think so.” Castiel tilts his head to the side again, watchful. “Your mind is troubled but it is quite sane.”

“Oh yeah? How can you tell?”

Castiel shrugs. “I just – see it.”

“Uh. Right.”

They lapse into silence and Dean’s gaze slides sideways, his face clouding over with sorrow once again. Castiel holds out his hand to the man and opens his fingers, revealing the object within. “You should take this,” he finds himself saying. “It’s important.”

Dean heaves a deep sigh, his gaze traveling over Castiel’s outstretched hand. “Yeah,” he whispers. “Yeah.” He takes it, lifts it from Castiel’s palm gingerly. When his fingers close around it he startles. “It’s warm,” he states, eyes looking accusingly at Castiel.

“Is that unusual?”

Dean frowns and shrugs. “Dunno.”

“Don’t lose it again,” Castiel tells him.

He laughs. “I never _lost_ it.”

“I see.”

Another silence, but this one is softer – quieter – and Castiel can sense the world returning to life around them – the trees shivering in the light wind and the birds twittering in the branches. He smiles faintly and looks up through the hole in the canopy; the sky remains just as blue as ever, and the sun just as bright.

From out of the corner of his eye Castiel sees Dean pocket the metal face, his fingers tracing the details softly – reverently – as if he fears he might forget it. “Thanks,” he murmurs, eyes unfocused.

Castiel takes one last, lingering look at Dean’s beautiful, grief-stricken eyes and then he turns away, melting into the forest like a sleek and stealthy panther.

 

* * *

 

Castiel rarely sleeps.

            He has no need for it much of the time, so instead he prowls the woods at night, climbs the low branches and greets the nocturnal beasts that roam amongst the trees.

On this night he thinks of Dean. He wonders what brought him so far into the forest and what caused him to be so aggrieved. Settling down upon a thick bough, Castiel allows himself a moment to ponder.

He doesn’t know who Dean is, or why he came to Castiel’s woods. All he knows is that Dean is important – somehow.

An owl sweeps past on outstretched wings, hooting softly, and Castiel moves on, a great hush ringing in his ears like the sound of rain underwater.

 

* * *

 

The next day Castiel returns to the forest clearing. He washes his face with cool water from the stream and waits.

            At midday Dean appears. The sky is cloudy, and his face is grey – bathed in shadow. The rings beneath his eyes are so deep and so dark that for a moment Castiel believes a fist has put them there. Dean pauses when he sees Castiel but he shows no sign of surprise.

            “Hey,” he says, closer now. In his hand he holds a bucket.

“Hello, Dean.” Castiel inspects his mouth, charts the bow of his lips and the slight evidence of chapped skin.

“Knew I wouldn’t get rid of you that easy.” Dean’s tone is light but his words are clipped and they sting a little.

Castiel frowns. “I was waiting for you,” he says.

“Oh yeah?” Dean drops the bucket beside his feet and kneels beside the water, splashes it over his face. “Why’s that?”

Castiel pauses, uncertain. “You’re important,” he confesses.

Dean finishes scrubbing his hands over his eyes and through his hair. He reaches for the bucket and plunges it in the river until it is full. When he stands he regards Castiel with a look that sets Castiel’s chest aching. “I’m not,” Dean murmurs, voice so broken Castiel thinks his heart may shatter right there and then. His eyelids flutter shut and he breathes out. “You don’t know anything about me,” he says, opening his eyes as if to look inside Castiel’s very soul.

There’s a moment then in which Castiel feels something so powerful that his vision blacks out and all he can see is a sort of fuzzy darkness. He sways on the spot, heart pounding. He wants to say _Tell me_ , but when he can finally see again Dean is gone – disappeared as if he was only ever a trick of the light – a mirage in the greenery of the forest.

 

* * *

 

Days pass and there’s no sign that Dean has returned to the river. Worry gnaws at Castiel and he finds himself hiding in the thicket next to the clearing more often than not, eyes peeled for any movement in the undergrowth. He sees very little – only the occasional scurrying squirrel and the odd flittering bird. Castiel considers the possibility that Dean will never come back, but the thought is uncomfortable to bear so he dismisses it.

On the third day he is rewarded. Dean steps into the clearing with heavy footsteps; he pauses on the edge of the trees to look around, eyes narrowed suspiciously. Castiel wonders if he’s looking for _him_.

Placated by the lack of movement, Dean progresses further into the open. This time he’s carrying a bundle of clothes and a bar of something white. Castiel squints at his hand, curious. Closer to the river Dean sets down his clothes on a flat rock and places the white object on top. With quick efficiency he strips off his current layers, throwing them onto the rock alongside his other garments. Castiel watches with interest; Dean’s skin is smooth and torsional, his muscles rippling as he bends to roll off his socks. He is beautiful in the murky light, but the shadows of his grief are still etched across his face and in the hunch of his shoulders. Castiel yearns to reach out and _touch_.

Dean is completely nude now, and he slips one foot into the water, hisses at the cold. He seems to remember something and twists around, rifles through his clothes until he finds his mysterious white rectangle. Then he continues into the river until only his head peeks out above the water.

It’s soap. Castiel’s heard of it, of course, but he’s never seen it used. Dean rubs it over himself to create a lather then rinses the bubbles away under the water. When he’s satisfied with his own cleanliness he wades out far enough to reach his clothes and drags them under the water with him. Castiel watches for a while as Dean scrubs them down, and then he steps out of the cover of the trees.

Dean doesn’t notice at first, but Castiel paddles out to where he’s furiously rubbing at a mark on the knee of his pants and smiles genially. The sound of the water alerts Dean to Castiel’s presence and he whips his head up. He yelps and stumbles back; the soap slips out of his fingers and lands in the water with a _plop._

“Jesus Christ,” Dean barks. “Cas – what the fuck?” He grabs a wayward t-shirt and slings it around his waist.

“Hello, Dean.” Castiel feels quite calm, which is more than can be said for Dean.

“How long have you been there?” Dean asks, eyes wide. He tightens his hold on the shirt.

Castiel cants his head to the side, calculating. “A while.”

Dean snorts in disbelief. “Right.” He gathers up his clothes and backs out of the water. “Don’t do that,” he says, then: “ _son of a bitch_.”

 Castiel startles. “Is everything alright?”

Dean laughs shortly and rubs a wet hand over his face. “I forgot my towel. God, that’s just fucking perfect.” He sits down on the rock and dumps his pile of clothes next to him, the soaking t-shirt still clinging to his hips.

“You would dry much quicker if you weren’t covering yourself,” Castiel tells him, still standing in the water.

Dean smirks, but it’s half-hearted. “Normal people don’t frolic around in their birthday suits, Cas.”

Castiel doesn’t know what a _birthday suit_ is but he gets the gist. “Are you ashamed?” he probes. “You shouldn’t be. You’re very beautiful.”

A groan slips out from Dean’s throat. “No, Cas – Castiel. _Jesus_. It’s just – a _thing_.”

He turns this over inside his head. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Dean mutters, shoulders hunching forward.

“Do you want me to leave?”

Dean meets his gaze. “No,” he sighs, gentle – defeated. “Do what you want.”

A great pause follows, pregnant with all the things Castiel wishes to ask. He moves forward onto the bank and the smooth stones press against the soles of his feet. “I want to talk to you,” he says, perching upon a neighbouring rock.

Dean lifts his head and catches Castiel’s stare. “Why?”

Castiel shrugs. “It is my nature to be curious.”

“Okay,” Dean says, voice quiet. “Shoot.”

“Why did you come to the forest?”

Dean’s gaze wanders and his head twists around until he’s staring out at the far bank of the river – from where Castiel saw Dean for the first time. He smiles wryly. “I came because I wanted to be alone,” he says.

Castiel blinks. “Oh.”

“Yeah.”

Castiel steels himself and continues on, determined to find out everything he can before Dean disappears forever. The next question is easy. “Why do you want to be alone?”

Dean squeezes his eyes shut and massages his still damp temples. “You really want my life story, huh?”

“The main points will suffice.” He says it without the intention of humour but Dean laughs anyway.

“ _Tactless fuckin’ forest genie_ ,” he mutters.

Castiel narrows his eyes. “I am not a _genie_.”

“Whatever.” Dean shifts on the rock, drags the t-shirt so it’s sitting snug against his pelvis. “If you really want to know, I had a brother and he died.” His voice cracks on the last word and he turns his head away again.

Something aches inside Castiel’s chest. “I’m sorry.”

“Yeah.” Dean drops his head into his hands. “Yeah, me too.”

“How did it happen?”

Dean swallows and Castiel feels that same traitorous urge to reach out and touch him. “He–“ Pause. “It was an accident.” An exhalation of air leaves Dean’s lungs in a rush. “He overdosed. They – I – didn’t get to him in time.”

“You blame yourself.”

Dean balls his hand into a fist. “He was my responsibility. I should have helped him but I pushed him away. I–“ he stops, takes a deep breath. “Why am I telling you this?”

Castiel leans forward and presses two fingers against Dean’s knee. “Because I asked you to.”

“I don’t even know you.”

“Maybe that’s a good thing.”

“Yeah, maybe.” Dean raises his head and shakes it a little. His eyes are red-rimmed but dry. “I should go hang these clothes up,” he says, not meeting Castiel’s eye.

Castiel leans back and lets Dean gather his things together. When everything’s in a pile in his arms he turns to Castiel and grimaces. “Sorry, man,” he says, “for laying all that on you.

“I’m glad you told me,” Castiel tries to reassure him. “There’s something about you, Dean. You’re important.”

Dean quirks his lips in a wry smile. “I doubt it.”

“You shouldn’t.”

“Yeah, well.” He shrugs, heaves a sigh. “I’m going now. See you ‘round, Cas.”

“Goodbye, Dean.”

He disappears into the thicket and Castiel squints at his bare back as it vanishes, somehow even more curious than he was before.

 

* * *

 

Castiel waits for Dean the next morning, anticipation coursing through his bloodstream like a drug. He settles down by the trunk of an old pine, rests his back against the gnarled bark, hopeful he won’t have to wait for long this time. His patience is rewarded about an hour later when Dean steps out from the cover of trees, calling Castiel’s name softly – almost shy.

He stands and emerges from the undergrowth so that Dean will see that he is there. When Dean does, he raises his eyebrows in slight surprise. “You really don’t have better things to do than wait around for me?” he asks, coming to a standstill a ways off.

Castiel makes a puzzled expression. “Of course not,” he says. Dean grins demurely.

“Well, good, because I wanted to ask you a question.”

“Oh?” Castiel slinks forward, approaching Dean from a diagonal.

“Yeah.” He chuckles and lowers his gaze, biting his lip nervously. “So you’re a – a guardian, right? Of the forest?” He sounds almost embarrassed to be asking it, and _hopeful_.

Castiel’s ears prick. “More or less.”

“And you can make things grow? Bring life and all that? Like a – I dunno – god?”

An uneasy feeling creeps up the back of Castiel’s spine; he can sense where Dean is heading with this. “Dean–“ he starts, but is interrupted.

“You can though, can’t you? I saw you do it the other day with those flowers.”

“I can make flowers grow – yes.”

“What about–“

“I can’t bring your brother back to life,” Castiel cuts him off, shaking his head. “I’m sorry, Dean.”

Almost immediately, Dean is on the defensive. “Who said I was asking that?”

Castiel sighs; he ought to have seen this coming. “You are not so opaque as you seem to believe.”

Dean balls his hands into fists at his sides. “You’re a jerk, you know that?”

It hurts, hearing those words tumble from Dean’s mouth, and Castiel’s eyes flash. “I have power over the natural world. There is always potential for growth in the soil, if one knows how to encourage it. But life and death – that is an entirely different matter. There are few who have command over that. I can make flowers grow on your brother’s grave, but I cannot give him life. I’m sorry, Dean.” He snaps his mouth shut and meets Dean’s irate glare head on.

Dean stares for a long time and then he deflates, all the air escaping his lungs in a rush. “We burned him,” he murmurs. “We burned him and scattered the ashes in South Dakota. I don’t know why I thought you’d be able to help. But I–“

“Dean,” Castiel steps closer, swallowing the strange lump that has formed in his throat. “I wish I could help. More than anything.” He reaches out and grips Dean’s shoulder in a light hold.

“It’s not your fault.” Dean says, wiping at his eyes angrily. “I should have been there, Cas. I should have _known_.” His voice is a whisper now and Castiel strains to hear. “I didn’t realise how bad it was – how hooked he had gotten. I thought–“ he makes a strangled noise in the back of his throat and Castiel gives in to his yearning and drags Dean into his arms so he can hold him securely. Dean is startlingly willing and he leans against Castiel’s bare chest without complaint, shudders wracking his body.

Castiel, altogether unsure about what to do next, starts by rubbing a soothing hand up Dean’s spine. It seems to work and Dean relaxes minutely; he lets a lengthy breath out of his lungs and pulls back.

“Shit,” he says, swiping at his eyes again. “Son of a bitch.”

Castiel doesn’t respond – just watches Dean’s face intently; he wants to hold Dean close again, but Dean is backing away, looking anywhere but at Castiel. He reaches the edge of the trees and Castiel remains where he is, tense and anxious.

“I’m not a good guy, Cas,” Dean says when he’s about to vanish into the shadows. “God knows, I tried to be.” Then he sighs in defeat and turns away, stumbling a little on a tree root as he goes.

 

* * *

 

After that, Castiel knows he will have to seek Dean himself if he wishes to see him again.

It is easy enough to follow Dean’s usual trail through the forest – the foliage has bent and twisted to accommodate his travels – the tussock underfoot withered and browning. Castiel walks in ghostly silence.

The path takes several twists and turns – as if Dean had tried to hide the way as he went. Castiel supposes Dean will think him an intruder, but he simply _must_ see him again – it would simply be _wrong_ not to.

Nor far along the path Castiel bumps his head against an overhanging vine. It has detached from its place among the treetops above and sailed downwards until it caught on a low-hanging bough. Castiel takes it in his hand gently and fashions it into a kind of belt that he loops around his waist. The wide leaves cover his more delicate parts – the ones that seem to make Dean so uncomfortable. He looks down at himself and nods, satisfied with the results, before continuing on his way.

The trail leads on for another few minutes, marked by more snapped twigs and flattened grasses. Castiel’s journey is lengthened because he pauses every so often to breathe life back into squashed flowers and battered brambles, unwilling to see them suffering so.

The woods become quieter the further along Castiel wanders, and it occurs to him that he has never been this far west – he doesn’t know this part of the forest, and that thought alone is enough to fill him with a sort of eager anxiety. Castiel knows, without much doubt, that he is coming to the edge of his world and stepping forward into an entirely different one.

Indeed, when he finally emerges from the cover of the trees and into the open air, he freezes, so taken aback by the sight before his eyes. A vast, overgrown field stretches before him; so huge he cannot see anything on the horizon but yellow grasses fluttering in the breeze. There are no trees visible, except those behind him, and when he turns to the side he catches sight of a small cabin tucked into a recess where the trees curve away. Grey smoke trickles from a chimney, and the sound of chimes is carried by the wind to tease at Castiel’s ears. It is a house – a house that likely belongs to the man named Dean Winchester.

Castiel takes a quick breath in and sets out across the plain towards it.

 

* * *

 

Castiel realises several things simultaneously when he arrives at the foot of the front porch. Firstly, the house is unfinished: the front door is half painted a rather striking shade of blue; the windows are missing their panes – covered instead by sheets of white plastic; and the roof itself is missing planks of wood here and there, seemingly at random.

Secondly, Dean built this house himself. Castiel can see his handprints all over the structure, loving and gentle and calloused from labour. Dean’s handiwork is obvious – and beautiful.

Lastly, Dean is not here. There are no sounds from inside the house, no traces in the air to suggest his presence.

Still, Castiel can surmise that Dean has been here recently – the smoke is a sure sign of life. He takes a step back from the porch and considers his options. When no answer presents itself, Castiel decides to explore a little more. Quietly, he circles around the house, stopping short when he comes face to face with a large metal apparatus the likes of which he has never seen. It is sleek and black like the night’s reflection in the water. Castiel circles it carefully, warily, but he senses its lifelessness and he knows it probably will not harm him. In fact, there’s something almost _lovely_ about the way the smooth curves of the machine flow into one another, and the slide of the sun over the various transparent surfaces is mesmerising. He reaches out a tentative hand and touches the ebony casing, almost expecting to yield to the palm of his hand but it is hard, and _hot_. Startled, he yanks his fingers away.

At that moment he hears movement in the thicket and he swivels his head to see Dean step out of the woods, a pile of thin branches resting in his arms. For a moment, Dean appears surprised that Castiel is there, standing beside his strange metal contraption, but then his expression melts into one of stubborn indifference and he continues on past, ignoring Castiel completely. He stomps around to the front of the house and Castiel is left alone, puzzled and hurt.

Eventually he traces Dean’s footsteps as far as the porch, but Dean is nowhere to be seen, presumably huddled up somewhere inside the unfinished cabin. Castiel has never been inside a house like this before, but he wishes to speak with Dean, so he gingerly steps up onto the porch and pushes his way through the mottled front door, heart beating at an elevated pace.

Once inside, Castiel’s jaw drops. He has never seen such a place. It is one room with four wooden walls, polished and honey-coloured. There are things here that Castiel has no name for – a long, soft-looking couch that appears as velvety as the moss that covers the forest floor. There’s another chair – smaller – whose material Castiel recognises as pine from his woods. It has been lovingly crafted, and Dean’s handprints are all over it.

The floor is covered in various pieces of material that are as smooth as an animal’s coat underneath Castiel’s feet. He digs his toes into the softness, eyes widening at the feeling.

There is little else in the house – another wooden item with four legs and a flat body – like the strangest creature Castiel has ever set eyes upon. But it does not move, or breathe, and upon it sit several tin cylinders with pictures and unfamiliar symbols painted across their sides.

One last thing catches his attention – a large, rectangular box with a heavy-looking lid. Castiel yearns to look inside, but Dean himself is in the room, tending to the fire, and Castiel has more important things to attend to. As usual, Dean has not noticed him, and Castiel approaches slowly, afraid of spooking him. Before he can reach Dean, his foot touches upon an unstable floorboard and a piercing creak sounds throughout the room.

Dean freezes in place, still kneeling on the floor. Castiel catches a minute trembling in his shoulders, and then Dean is rounding upon him, mouth stretched into an angry line.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing here?” he spits.

Castiel blanches, reeling back as if punched. “I came to speak with you,” he tells him, trying to keep calm. But Dean’s eyes are boring into his skull and it is _torture_.

Dean raises his hand and points towards the door, finger quivering. “Get out,” he orders, voice a rumbling simmer. “I don’t need you,” he says. “Get out _now_.”

Castiel spins around and rushes out into the open air, hurt and confused.

 

* * *

 

Dean brings gifts

He brings gifts and he places them on a rock in the clearing, and then he leaves, stepping heavily across the glade with reluctant, hesitant, _guilty_ feet.

Castiel creeps into the open space and picks up the first gift. It is a wishbone, clean and smooth and white. Castiel touches it with his fingers and feels the life of the creature who once bore it thrumming gently inside. It speaks to him with marrow-filled words. _I am a bone of peace_ , it says to him. _A gift. A wish_.

He sets it gently aside without answering and picks up the next item. It is a glass jar – empty and vacuous, and chipped at the thin edge where the lid once screwed on. Castiel sniffs the inside. It smells vaguely of red berries and the summer. It makes him smile, and he handles the vessel with utmost care, placing it beside the wishbone as tenderly as a mother handles her baby.

The last gift is the best one – a tiny, hand-carved squirrel, chiselled out of wood and strikingly realistic. Castiel delights in the feel of its feather-light weight on his palm and touches each one of his fingers to it at least once, drinking in the remnants of Dean’s attention and care. Dean spent time on this tiny sculpture; he held it firmly between his fingers and carved out the eyes and paws and tail. Castiel imagines him on his porch, head bowed and tongue poking out just slightly as he whittles out the shape and creates a miniature life in his hand. It is beautiful – lovelier than words.

Castiel gathers up each item and hides them in the undergrowth so that Dean will know Castiel accepts his gifts, and forgives him.

 

* * *

 

Castiel does not return to the clearing until late the next evening. He spends the day traversing the forest, checking for wounded animals and inspecting the undergrowth for new and interesting plants; he counts several species of mushroom and is delighted to come face-to-face with a tiny dormouse as it is skittering up a nearby tree. It is a good day, but as the hours pass Castiel feels an itching in his feet that seems insistent on carrying him towards the open area by the river – and Dean.

He arrives just as the dusk is settling upon the world, and the tops of the trees seem to be bathed in golden light as the sun makes its descent. Dean is conspicuously absent, though Castiel doesn’t find that he is surprised. He has been there, however, and has left behind what Castiel can only assume is another gift: a metal object this time – round and dish-shaped at one end with a long handle that Castiel can hold between his fingers. He looks into the clear metal and is surprised to see himself staring back, face distorted in an alarming fashion. At first he is horrified by his grotesque features, but the more he looks, the more comical it becomes, and he finds himself grinning at his own reflection, poking out his tongue and making faces to contort the image even further.

He is startled when another face appears beside his own in the small reflection, and he spins around, nearly dropping the spoon in shock. Dean is standing behind him, shoulders hunched and smiling sheepishly. “Hey,” he says, meeting Castiel’s eye.

“Hello, Dean,” Castiel says in response, rubbing the little metal object with his finger and thumb

Dean clears his throat and looks around, his gaze traveling from tree to tree, his teeth chewing on his bottom lip. “It’s a spoon,” he murmurs, almost absent-mindedly, and Castiel furrows his brow in confusion.

“What is?”

Dean meets his gaze again and smiles. “That–“ he points to the thing in Castiel’s hand. “We use it for eating.”

“Oh.” Castiel glances down. “Why did you give it to me?” He looks back up curiously.

There’s a pause, and then Dean laughs and scrubs his hand through his hair. “I have no fucking clue,” he tells him, shrugging. “Thought you might find it interesting – maybe. Or–“ he stops, and suddenly his expression turns apologetic. “I fucked up,” he murmurs, “didn’t want you to hate me – or – or anything.”

Castiel smiles softly and touches the back of Dean’s hand where it hangs limp beside his leg. “I forgive you, Dean,” he says, earnest, honest. “You don’t need to explain yourself to me.”

Dean shakes his head. “Yeah – yeah, I kinda do, Cas. You’re a good guy and I was a total dick to you.” He makes a defeated noise and slumps down onto the rock where he leans forward and rests his head in his hands. “You won’t strangle me with vines in my sleep or anything, will you?”

Castiel blinks and tilts his head sideways in confusion. “Why would I do that?”

Dean snorts. “I dunno, man. It’s just that in the stories most gods are pretty, y’know, _smitey_.”

“Then I suppose,” Castiel says, shifting his weight to his other foot, “that I am not _most gods_.”

Dean laughs, then, and he looks up at Castiel in wonder. “How are you real?” he questions with genuine curiosity. “Gods – they don’t exist.”

“Have I not sufficiently proved myself to you?” Castiel cants his head to the side and regards Dean with sombre eyes.

Dean shakes his head minutely and shrugs. “Honestly? I sometimes think I’ve just made you up inside my head. Like some kind of weird imaginary friend.” He blinks, thinking about what he’s just said. “Fuck, that’s fucked up.”

“You were lonely,” Castiel replies, “and then you found me.”

Dean groans and covers his eyes with his hands. “That’s even _worse_. Jesus Christ.”

Castiel ignores him and continues his train of thought. “On the other hand, perhaps it is I who is imagining you.”

Dean stills for a moment before peeking out between a gap in his fingers. “I’m real, Cas. Honest,” he says, endearingly earnest.

Castiel smiles. “I know. And so am I.”

Dean returns his smile tentatively. “Guess we’re at an impasse here, huh?”

“I prefer the term ‘mutual understanding’.”

There’s a beat, and then Dean bursts into laughter again. “You are something else,” he mutters wistfully as Castiel moves to sit beside him.

“You’ve said that before – the first time we met.”

“Yeah, well, it’s true.”

Castiel doesn’t know what to say to that, so he is silent, listening to the steady thumping of Dean’s heart beneath his breast. Eventually Dean speaks up again, his voice quieter and less sure of itself. “I basically raised Sammy on my own, you know,” he says.

“Mm?” Castiel entire attention suddenly focuses on Dean, and he watches the flittering of emotions pass swiftly across Dean’s face. He looks hurt, and sad, and frightened – like a small, wounded animal caught in the jaws of a predator.

He passes a hand over his face in one quick motion. “Yeah. Deadbeat dad, just plain _dead_ mom, and no real place to call our home. I didn’t want Sam to grow up like some orphan so I did it all myself. Used to take him to the park and everything.”

 Dean chuckles at the memory, then grows morose once more. “Kid was doing so well. He got into Stanford – can you believe that? He was gonna be a kickass lawyer and make a shitload of money so we would never have to live in a motel again.

“And for a while everything was good. I missed him like crazy, but it was for the best – and I was so proud. But then he met this girl – Ruby – and she was into all kinds of messed up stuff. She got Sam hooked and he couldn’t stop – started failing his papers and eventually lost his scholarship. I dunno what happened – I thought he was happy. I thought he knew better.

One night he and Ruby were shooting up at this graveyard – same one my mum was buried in, if you can believe that – and Sammy took a little too much, and–“

Dean’s voice falters and he has to take a deep breath before going on. “He called me. That night. He called me and he told me he thought he was in trouble, asked me to come get him. And you know what I told him? I told him that if he could get himself into that mess, he could get himself out. And then I hung up. That was the last thing Sammy ever heard me say. I–“

Dean is crying now, furiously wiping at his eyes as the tears spill over onto his cheeks and down to his chin. He lets out a choked sob and then a string of angry expletives. “How could I have said that? I let my little brother down and now he’s dead. If I hadn’t – if I had been there for him – he might still–“

“Dean.” Castiel quiets him with a gentle hand over his knee. “What you said to your brother was wrong.” He feels Dean tense underneath his palm, but ploughs on with what he intends to say. “But you couldn’t have known what would happen. If you had, you would have gone to help; that much is clear. You may have thought your brother was your charge, Dean, but he was a grown man with his own choices to make. I understand; you loved him, and therefore you blame yourself.”

Castiel rubs his thumb in a tiny circle on the inner part of Dean’s leg in the hopes of soothing his trembling limbs. “But remember this, Dean: we can’t always save the ones we love.”

Dean shakes his head, and Castiel is so close he can feel the way Dean’s entire body moves in tandem with the motion. “I could have, Cas. I could have saved him.”

“Maybe,” Castiel agrees. “But it wasn’t your responsibility.”

“Sam was all I had,” he says by way of reply. “He was my little brother – that little snot-nosed kid who I promised to never abandon. But I did… I did.” Dean swipes one more time at his red-rimmed eyes and then stands, breaking contact with Castiel.

“I should go,” he says, but Castiel reaches out and touches his hand before he can escape.

“Dean, find a way to forgive yourself.” It’s a plea, and Castiel is surprised to hear himself say it.

Dean nods stiffly and looks down at where their hands are touching. “I’ll try,” he says, something softening in his eyes, and then he walks away until his whole body is swallowed by the darkness.

 

* * *

 

Days pass and Castiel does not return to the glade. He travels to the farthest end of the forest, where the trees hit the mountain ranges and climb up their sides like vines. He swims in the freezing water in a valley and thinks about Dean: his eyes like rosebuds and the light dusting of freckles across the breadth of his face that cause him to appear much younger than Castiel knows he is. And his hands; those lovely calloused fingers used for building and whittling and _touching_.

Castiel wonders what it would be like to feel Dean’s hands on his skin. He’s sure it would feel good. Better than good.

On his back, floating in a deep lake of the purest water, Castiel thinks of these things and sighs. He retreats from the water and dries himself in the sun, then he reattaches his leafy belt and makes the journey back through the woods with a fluttering felt behind the bars of his ribs.

 

* * *

 

Castiel comes to the edge of the wood and stands, listening. He hears the calling of a woodpecker from behind, and the stark silence of the fields before him. The grass is disturbed by a light wind and quivers as if snakes are coiling through the roots. Dark clouds brew on the horizon, promising a storm; Castiel shudders.

Silence reigns, and then a great booming noise is heard from far off, like the cracking of the lake ice in Spring; soon the forces of nature will be upon them.

Without delay, Castiel hurries towards Dean’s cabin. He calls out as he gets nearer, not wishing to disturb Dean like before, but there is no answer – just the soft tinkling of the wind chimes in the breeze. He hops up onto the porch and shouts Dean’s name again, and again no one responds. After a short pause, he crosses the porch and inspects the door. Stuck to the middle is a white sheet of paper, slightly ripped at the edges and covered in a dark scrawl. Castiel squints at the strange symbols until his head begins to ache, but he cannot understand the words. Frustrated, he pulls the message from its place and scrunches his nose at it. It would likely tell him where Dean is, if only he could read it.

After another valiant effort, Castiel concedes defeat and sticks the note back on the front door. Then he pushes the door in slowly so he can peer inside. The place is, as Castiel expected, devoid of Dean, though all his belongings remain where they were the last time he entered the house. He pulls back and away from the door, frowning. Then he descends from the porch and wanders around to the back, where he is startled to find that the large metal machine has now gone, leaving behind several skid marks and a patch of dry, dead grass. How dean managed to move the contraption is beyond Castiel, but he has a feeling it means Dean won’t be back for a while.

With a heavy heart, Castiel returns to the cabin, this time entering fully. He looks around, noting a few new items: a wicker chair and a basket laden with wood, as well as a few small sculptures of animals – birds and deer and bears – just like the one Castiel hid in the growth beside the clearing that Dean gifted him. He picks up one of the bears and strokes it gently, marvelling at the details; Dean is a skilled craftsman.

Carefully he replaces it and turns towards the large box he had seen on his previous visit. A part of him knows it’s an act of violation, but his curiosity gets the better of him and soon enough Castiel is lifting open the lid of the huge box so he can look at what’s inside.

What he sees makes him gasp. All of Dean’s clothes lie in neatly folded piles, from his jeans and shirts to his socks and shoes. Without thinking Castiel grabs one of his t-shirts and brings it to his face. It smells of Dean, and the fabric is deliciously soft to the touch. With a furtive glance around the room, Castiel slips it over his head and battles to get his arms through the right holes. When he manages it he sighs with contentment, feeling closer to Dean than ever before. He also steals a pair of faded red boxers and slips them over his thighs, humming at the feeling of Dean’s clothes against his skin.

Though the garments are strange to wear, Dean’s scent surrounds Castiel in a cloud and he finds himself feeling very warm and strangely secure. He sits back on his haunches, blinking away a sort of dizzy haze from his mind. Somewhere in the distance thunder roars, and Castiel wanders across the room and folds himself onto the soft fleecy surface of the couch where he can shut his eyes and listen to the dim sounds of the imminent storm.

Before long he’s drifting off, the soft pitter-patter of rain lulling him to sleep.

 

* * *

 

Something outside is rumbling.

Castiel surfaces from the deep recesses of sleep and lies still so he can listen. It sounds almost like thunder, but it doesn’t boom and fade away like he would expect; instead it growls and reverberates like a wild animal, but before Castiel has a chance to identify it, the sound stops completely. Unconcerned, his eyes drift shut again and he shuffles around on the couch to get comfortable.

And then the door opens. Castiel blinks and freezes as Dean enters the cabin; their eyes meet. Dean jumps in surprise but he doesn’t explode in a rage like the last time. “Cas?” he says, shutting the door slowly behind him. “What are you doing here?” Castiel sits up and at that moment Dean realises he’s wearing his clothes. “You–“ he stops, closes his mouth, then opens it again. “That’s–“

“My apologies.” Castiel hurries to remove the t-shirt, but Dean shakes his head.

“No, hey, leave ‘em on.” He strides over to the couch and helps Castiel return his arm into the sleeve. When Castiel glances up, Dean meets his eye and swallows before turning away.

“I came to see you, but you were gone.”

Dean dumps his bag on the floor and lowers himself into the wicker chair. “Yeah, I went to – uh – do some thinking. Guess you didn’t see my note, huh?”

“I saw it. But I can’t read, Dean.”

“Oh.” Dean is quiet for a moment. “Didn’t think of that.” He scratches the side of his jaw sheepishly. “So you just thought you’d crash here for the night then or – what?”

It’s Castiel’s turn to be sheepish, and he casts his gaze down to the floor to avoid Dean’s eye. “When I saw you were gone… my curiosity got the better of me.” He plucks at the light cloth covering his thighs. “Wearing your clothes has been a pleasant experience.”

“Yeah?” Dean lifts an eyebrow at him. “First time you’ve worn anything like that, huh?”

Castiel nods.

“Well, you can keep ‘em. If you want.” Dean looks slightly embarrassed and he clears his throat. “They – uh – they suit you.”

“Do you think so?” He glances down at himself. The t-shirt is plain black and fraying at the edges; it’s old. No wonder it smells so strongly of Dean. Castiel smiles. “Thank you, Dean.”

Dean waves his hand around dismissively. “No sweat. You need them more than me, anyway.” With a sigh he heaves himself to his feet. “You want a coffee or something? A biscuit maybe? I think I’ve got Graham crackers or something in here.” He begins to rummage around the little room, pulling out random packets and other items.

 “I’m not sure I know what coffee is. Or Graham crackers, for that matter.”

Dean swivels on his heels and turns to Castiel, mouth agape. “What?” His body deflates. “Oh, right. Forest hermit. Keep forgetting.”

Castiel frowns but lets him make the coffee. Dean brings it over in a ceramic mug complete with chipped handle; he hands it to Castiel gingerly. “Careful, it’s hot.”

He sniffs it at first, recoiling at the bitter smell. “I’m not sure about this,” he says.

“Just try it.”

Not wanting to disappoint Dean, he takes a tiny sip. It’s bitter – like tree bark – and he recoils at the taste. Knowing that Dean is watching, however, makes him try again, and this time the warm liquid trickles down his throat much more easily. He squints into the mug and takes another drink. Then another. Soon all of it is gone, and Dean is standing by looking triumphant.

“Well?”

“It’s good,” he responds thoughtfully, looking down at the remaining dregs and swilling them around. “Do you have anymore?”

Dean laughs – a short, loud bark. “Yeah, but that’s enough for now, I think. This stuff’ll buzz you right out of your skin.” He takes the mug from Castiel’s hand, and that’s when Castiel notices the amulet, hanging loose around Dean’s neck – newly polished and shining in the dim light.

Dean catches him looking and smiles sadly, reaching up to fiddle with the carved face. “I went to Stull,” he murmurs, flopping down onto the couch beside Castiel. “That’s the cemetery where – where, you know.”

Castiel catches Dean’s hand within his own and squeezes. “I know.”

Dean smiles again and rubs his thumb over the side of Castiel’s little finger. “You were right; I had to forgive myself.”

“And did you?”

His head shakes. “No; not yet.” He looks up at Castiel and his eyes are bright with hope. “But I will, Cas.” He touches his hand to the pendant once more. “Sammy gave this to me for Christmas one year. Wrapped it up in newspaper and everything.” Dean laughs. “That was the best damn Christmas I ever had.”

“He would be glad to see you wearing it, Dean.”

“Yeah, he would.”

Castiel smiles and lifts Dean’s hand into his lap. He guides the tip of his finger over the little bumps of Dean’s knuckles. “Your hands are lovely,” he sighs.

Dean huffs and before Castiel knows what’s happening his other hand is cupping his cheek. “Maybe I’m just lonely,” he whispers, “but I’ve wanted to do this for a while,” and then he leans in and kisses Castiel.

His lips are gentle – feather-light against Castiel’s – and as uncertain as a fawn first learning to walk on wobbly legs. He draws back with an _Um_ and an apologetic smile. Castiel touches his cheek, his jaw, his neck with wonder.

“Dean,” he half-laughs. “Dean. _Oh,_ Dean _._ ”

“Hey,” Dean grins, his eyes glimmering like shards of sunlight. “You look _really_ good in my clothes.”

“They smell like you,” he defends himself, folding his arms around Dean’s back and planting his palms against the planes of his muscles. Gently, he draws Dean forward until he’s curled snug against Castiel’s chest with his whole body relaxed and limp. Dean tucks his head underneath Castiel’s chin and embraces him with a contented sigh.

“I miss him,” he mumbles into Castiel’s tee.

“I know.” Castiel plants a kiss on the top of his head. “He was your brother.”

Dean buries closer – and then the tears come.

His body trembles in Castiel’s arms but he makes no sounds except the soft, uneven breaths of one who is plagued by the passing of sorrow. He weeps for several minutes, and then he pulls back, his eyes bright with moisture, but free from tears.

“Sorry,” he says, shamefaced.

Castiel regards him pensively. “Your apology is unnecessary,” he responds, leaning in to kiss Dean’s salty cheeks.

Dean nods and slides his hand up and over Castiel’s head; he rubs at his hair and trails his strong fingers down over Castiel’s face until they reach his collar. Then he kisses him once more, lips heavier and surer than before. Castiel is unpractised, but he follows along as best he can, mimicking the way Dean flicks his tongue over Castiel’s bottom lip and slips it inside his mouth just _so_.

A moan escapes unbidden, and Dean pulls back, grinning. “That’s enough excitement for now, I reckon.” He pulls himself off the couch and scrubs his hands over his raw face. Cas whines, deep in his throat, and latches his hand around Dean’s wrist. But Dean is unmerciful and he just laughs a booming laugh. “I’m gonna head to the river for a swim – get cleaned up. You wanna come?” He waggles his eyebrows in a suggestive manner and swipes his free thumb over Castiel’s still-parted lips.

It takes a mere half-second for Castiel to say yes, and then he is dragging Dean across the cabin and outside, into the cool, storm-ravaged air.

  

Epilogue

 

Castiel moves in – sort of.

There’s really not enough room for two in the cabin, and even though Dean builds a large bed for the both of them to sleep on, Cas still finds himself wandering restlessly most nights. Dean grumbles, says Cas is _neglecting him_ , but he understands, too. Castiel has been a creature of solitude for thousands of years, and he needs some time to adapt to this new life.

For his part, Castiel is happy. He makes flowers bloom all around the cabin, creating a beautiful garden on what Dean refers to as the _Front Lawn_. They grow sweet peas and tomato plants; orange trees and lemon; carrots and potatoes and parsnips, all of which Castiel tends to with the greatest care.

Some days they sit together on the porch, in the chairs that Dean made with his own two hands. Castiel asks him about the world beyond, and wonders at the things Dean tells him of buildings that reach the sun and huge metal birds that fly people across the ocean. Dean even takes him for a drive in his black machine – _Baby_ , Dean calls it.

“Finest car in all fifty states,” he says proudly when Castiel asks him what it _is_. “I grew up in this car,” he says. “Closest thing I ever had to a home.”

 Castiel understands; this car is Dean’s forest. He kisses the slope of his jaw and Dean hums as he starts the engine.

The world is a different place now – or so it feels to Castiel. He _loves_ – in a way that he has never loved before. Dean is kind and gentle, and although Castiel knows that one day, when he is ready, Dean will return to his own world – he is still glad.

Because Dean is here _now_ , and his kisses are as warm and lovely as the sun.


End file.
